


The Flowers Are Poisonous, Just Like Him

by TheAllShipperKAZ2Y5



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, But no detailed smut, Character Death, Crying, Drinking, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, Dry Humping, Flowers, Frottage, Grinding, Hurt Scott, Hurt Stiles, Kissing, Light drug use, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Descriptive Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, Oleanders, Open Relationships, Sad, Sad Ending, Sad Scott, Sad Stiles, Sciles, Skittles, Slow kissing, Sort of Hipserish, Suicide, Tears, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAllShipperKAZ2Y5/pseuds/TheAllShipperKAZ2Y5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd never realized, until it was too late, that every flower Scott gave him, just like every kiss, was poisonous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flowers Are Poisonous, Just Like Him

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Orchids and Oleanders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732399) by [Mcusekat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mcusekat/pseuds/Mcusekat). 



> This work was inspired by Orchids and Oleanders, by Aristotle.
> 
> Flower references found here:  
> http://www.ecbdflowerstore.com/108085.php

Stiles wondered often, just how long people spent trying to prevent the inevitable. How much of their life they spent trying to paint over imperfections and cover-up decay. He wondered more so about how much they tried not to die. He thought about zebra crossings and anti-wrinkle creams and healthy lifestyles and he watched them go through and then out of his thoughts without feeling any lament for their loss.

He hated the way his father treated whiskey like oxygen and work like an end game. He hated the way teachers spoke as though they held the answers to every question, as though the fact that they knew a hundred useless facts made them something important in the world. He hated the way that Erica smelt like cheap perfume and fake leather. He hated the way that every time his Dad said goodbye before leaving for work he said it as though he might not get the chance to say anything else.

Most of all, he hated the way everyone strived for a false perfection. As though every woman should look like a flawless painting with permanent make-up and endless legs. How every guy should have a 10 inch dick and an eight pack right until the day he died. He hated life, and everything it represents. Everything people thought it was meant to be.

He hated the way his school counselor acted as though she knew how he thought, how he felt. He hated the way she tried to find things that related to him. Tried to make him feel 'normal'. "People think life is about living. They think it's about finding purpose and surviving. On the latter they're right. We evolved to survive. But they're wrong about everything else. We're born to die. From the moment we start to live, we start to die. We decay and then we rot and we provide a source for something or someone else to die and decay". She'd nodded solemnly as though he were a child talking nonsense, had rambled on for the remainder of they're time talking about the meaning of life and all the bullshit that society had fed her that she so mindlessly conformed to without knowing it.

He leant over the edge, thought about how you were never more than 10 feet away from something that could kill you. Or that you could use to kill someone. He thought about how easy, how simple it would be to just lean that little bit further and he'd prove the existence of gravity. Then he thought about how not many people did because they'd been raised to think it wrong and abnormal and not to think of it at all.

He turned around, and walked away. As he always did.

The coffee shop had mistletoe near the door, tactfully placed so that nobody would be forced to conform to some made-up 'rule'. He sipped his iced espresso. "It's funny, isn't it?" he heard besides him. The voice soft, smooth. Turned his head to see an imperfect face that to him, looked perfect. Eyes like melted dark chocolate mixed with crushed coal turned to him, shining with the reflection of the lighting. "The mistletoe. It's funny, about the reason  _why_ we coax people into kissing under it. Pointlessly trying to hide that it's deadly. That it's poisonous and can kill. That it's a splodge of black on the perfect, bright world they're trying to create. So it's been turned into something romantic. Something pretty".

The imperfectly perfect boy walked away before he could respond. Stiles found himself thinking about a starless midnight sky and uneven lines as he finished his espresso. He left the empty cup on the table, and headed for the exit. Someone bumped into him from the side and he kiltered off course, forced a few steps right.

"Oops" he heard.

It was him.

They stood for a few moments, whiskey caught up in coal and then coal stepped forwards, hand cupping Stiles' cheek, holding his hair and they kissed. It was soft, velvety skin sliding together slowly, unhurried. Unlike the busyness of the world around them and Stiles felt something cold and smooth sliding against the back of his ear, felt something soft and light against his temple and the other boy pulled back slowly, held his gaze for a second or two before glancing up, and then turning away, vanishing through the door in a smooth turn.

Stiles reached up and untucked the flower. It was a lily of some sort. (A calla lily, he learnt later. The same way he later learnt that it represented death). When he looked up, he was standing under the mistletoe.

Stiles kept it by his bedside, without water. The useless notion of placing flowers in water to try and extend their life when you'd already killed them by picking them was like swallowing cyanide then drinking a health juice. He thought about picking flowers could be a metaphor for something deep and meaningful. He watched the flower wilt and shrivel and thought about how perhaps humans were metaphors for flowers. How we were thought to be pretty and meaningful until we shriveled and wilted and died.

When it begun to decay, he took it outside and left it at the base of the rose bush his mother had planted.  _Because they were pretty and represented love._

He found coffee shop boy three days later, leaning against a tree in the park and absently twiddling a single flower in one hand and a cigarette between two fingers of the other. "It's a Marigold" he told him, blowing the smoke onto the plant slowly, watching it roll over the petals and fog around the stem. "It's Scott" co- no.  _Scott_ said, a moment later. Stiles blinked, and didn't ask how he knew. It was obvious, really. Situation like that happens, you're going to wonder. For a long time they just stood there, Scott blowing clouds of smoke into the air through pursed lips and Stiles watching him.

Eventually, Scott crushed the cigarette and threw it into a nearby bin, and approached Stiles. This time, it was Stiles who kissed Scott, stepping forwards to grab the lapels of his jacket and lean up. Their plump lips met firmly, pressing together like if there was any gaps the world would seep in a drown them, part them. Scott's free hand came up to cup his cheek again, thumb stroking over the smooth skin lightly. Scott must have done something with the flower because then both of Stiles' cheeks were covered and Scott dipped his head down slowly, parted his lips against Stiles' and caught his lower lip with his teeth, tugged gently.

They parted slowly like sticky toffee and Stiles' lips tinged as though burning. Scott took his hand. Stiles followed. Two hours later they were laying next to a holly bush, Kissing as Scott trailed an ivy leaf over Stiles' arm in slow, careful strokes, timed to match each time he rolled his hips down with lust, gentle circles and shapes to provide company to the times he thrust down as though actually fucking the delicate boy beneath him.

Six hours later, when Stiles was getting ready for bed with bitten red lips and a tingling arm, he saw the angered skin scrawling numbers across it's milky canvas. The next morning, he found the Marigold and the wilting leaves of a purple lilac in his coat pocket. 

The next morning, while they kissed under the mistletoe with the cold of winter nipping at their sides, he tucked a Jonquil into Scott's palm.

Scott was like drugs, like drink, Stiles realized, months later as he watched Scott move above him, smoke from a joint curling from his nostrils and his lips parted, eyes closed in pleasure. He came with Scott breathing smoke into his mouth and filling him with burning hotness and pressing the crumpled Petals of a Tamarisk into his stomach, his hips, like swallowing stiff whiskey and he wondered if Scott had ever thought about leaning that little bit too far. If he'd ever swallowed just one pill more than usual, drank until the burn rendered him numb.

They met, every single day at the coffee shop. And every single time Scott held a single bloom of mistletoe over their heads, kissed him with the taste of cigarettes and coffee and he always kissed with just a little more desperation, a little more need. Stiles heard his father crying, sometimes. Pouring his regrets into a glass and downing them with bitterness. He caught the stares, when he turned up at school late, the scent of flowers deep in his skin and the dark splotches of reluctant love like the sun breaking through clouds littering his skin. 

The first time Scott told Stiles he loved him, he did it say same way he always spoke. Through flowers. They'd moved together, Scott's hands on his hips, his ass, his thighs, roaming restlessly as he panted and Stiles had watched him as he rose and fell. Scott had reached up, let a handful of red Chrysanthemum  and peach blossoms fall down, dusting Stiles' hair and bare skin like a thousand tiny kisses. Stiles had sunk his teeth into Scott's shoulder with a sweet scent clogging his throat and the feel of silk touches on his thighs, lifting his head to whisper "I love you too" into the curve of Scott's ear. 

Stiles' grades stayed, but he faded from the world long before he fell. Isaac, Scott's adopted brother, came to him often with soft eyes and a sad smile. Asked why he was never in Lacrosse, saw the darkness of Stiles' lips and the crumpled flower in his pocket and knew the answer before Stiles even opened his mouth. Coach yelled at him in the hallways and his father gave him regretful, lost, mournful looks and smiles each time Stiles came home rumpled and messy. Scott was an addiction. _  
_

Scott was poisonous, though he never actively tried to be.

 _You're a white lily, Stiles. Pure, innocent. You_ were  _virginal. I'm a black rose, Stiles. You should leave. Get away while you still can before you get scratched by thorns, before you touch too much poison._

Stiles had shushed him, pressing a moss rosebud to his mouth and kissing away the bitter juice left behind. Scott had cried, then. Nothing messy. Just silent drops of saltwater dripping down his cheeks as he dragged Stiles down, rocked up into him slowly and let a scatter of primrose leaves and Hemlock flutter down the rises of Stiles' spine as he breathed in the scent of orchids. 

The next day, Scott didn't meet him at the coffee shop. The barista guy handed him his drink, and a clump of sweetpea and cyclamen, tied together with red ribbon. He said that he'd been told to give it to a 'Stiles with an I'.

And Stiles knew.

Deputy Parrish walked in an hour later, while Stiles was sitting at their -his- usual table, twirling a single mistletoe berry between two fingers and sipping a hot latte. He apologized -they all do- and put a hand on his shoulder where dark teeth marks still spoke silent  _I love you's_ in a broken cry. 

Scott's funeral had been small. Pretty. Litters of red and black roses scattered with oak leaves adorned the entire church. The attendance was small. Just Stiles, Isaac, Melissa and the Sheriff. As the priest spoke, Stiles knelt by the grave, stared at the sleek ebony wood and thought of dark chocolate eyes flecked with coal, of midnight-dark curls. He dropped a handful of Harebell, Tea Rose, Helenium, Honeysuckle and white Orchids.

Isaac came over to him, when everyone was getting ready to leave. "He bought something for you. I don't know what it is, but we got a letter this morning. We phoned the company so they'd deliver it to your house, instead. I think...I think he wanted to tell you something".

Stiles had smiled, rubbed at the fading marks on his skin and stepped forwards, hugging Isaac then holding him while he bawled like a disturbed baby. Before he left, he tucked a Thrift into Isaac's collar and kissed his cheek.

Scott's final goodbye arrived two days later, and the Sheriff left the large box in Stiles' room and excused himself to work to give Stiles some privacy. The box had air holes, and had been carefully hand delivered. 

Finally, Stiles took out the Stanley knife from the pocket of Scott's jacket and sliced open the box. Inside, was a huge 'frozen' bouquet. Specially treated to stay the way it was, forever. As though someone had paused time.

Stiles counted the flowers, one by one.

Yellow and megneta Zinnia, Red Tulip, Sweetpea, a single full bloom Rose, Red roses, Peach Blossoms, Pine, Morning Glory, yellow Honeysuckle, purple Hyacinth, Dandelions and Cedar.

Stiles smiled as the tears dripped down his cheeks, and sent his father a text asking for him to pick up the supplies for a large shelf. 

For a long time, Stiles wasn't fine. He got through school days by filling his water bottle with vodka and by smoking a joint behind the bleachers. He spent his nights laying in the damp grass in the park, under the tree. Drinking coffee and playing with beads of mistletoe. He blew his allowances on Nightshade and Orchids and other poisonous, pretty flowers. He planted them all around the rose bush. Thought about how Scott would have made a stupid metaphor about Stiles being the rose bush and Scott being the poisonous, pretty plants, surrounding him, cutting him off from reality.

He placed pink Camellia's around Scott's headstone. And each time one set withered he'd replace them with another. Red roses, Cedar, every sad and lonely plant he came across.

Soon, almost every shelf of his room was home to a vase or tied bundle of white Oleanders. Because they were like Scott.

Beautiful, yet poisonous. They took up every ounce of space, they were distracting and pretty and deadly in excess.

Soon, Stiles learnt to live. He stood and he breathed in the cold air, the scent of flowers all around him and he closed his eyes with a small smile of longing. Two years. He blew the stars a kiss. "I love you" he murmured, and then he stepped forwards.

And he flew.

And in the light of passing headlights, just seconds too late, the wind gently ruffled the bundle of Sweetpea, Saffron and red Chrysanthemum tied neatly with a strip of red ribbon.

_We're made out of stardust, Stiles. Did you know that? You were once a star. Brilliant and shining, up in an endless world of cosmic shmuck and messy beauty._

_You're my star now. You light up Earth, instead of a black void. And one day you'll shine up there again. We both will._


End file.
